


A Run At The Past

by hostagesfic



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 11:19:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1031073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hostagesfic/pseuds/hostagesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry doesn’t expect it to happen while Gemma’s in Australia. He’s not lonely, this time, with plenty to do and the adrenaline of the end of tour, the excitement of going back to Japan. And Gemma, of course, her jokes at his expense and her flirting with Niall and her hugs for every occasion, the way she looks like mum when she scolds him half-heartedly. There’s no reason it should happen.</p><p>He wakes up in Louis’ bed anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Run At The Past

**Author's Note:**

> We started this after seeing a handful of manips of 19-year-old Harry and 19-year-old Louis together, and then sorta marinated the whole thing in angst. Title from [I Won't Be Left](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ZBG3MUgDbY) by Tegan & Sara.

Harry doesn’t expect it to happen while Gemma’s in Australia. He’s not lonely, this time, with plenty to do and the adrenaline of the end of tour, the excitement of going back to Japan. And Gemma, of course, her jokes at his expense and her flirting with Niall and her hugs for every occasion, the way she looks like mum when she scolds him half-heartedly. There’s no reason it should happen.

He wakes up in Louis’ bed anyway. 

;

It’s cold, but that’s because it’s December in London and they don’t have heat. Harry presses closer to Louis in the half-light before dawn, the soft-edged moment before he manages to blink the remaining sleep from his eyes. 

“Shh,” Louis soothes, warm little fingers pinching at Harry’s waist when he tries to draw back. He doesn’t open his eyes. For just a moment, Harry hopes he won’t. 

Louis opens his eyes. “Hey,” he whispers. “Hey, are you alright?”

Harry exhales, rubbing at his face as Louis pushes himself up on one elbow and shoves a hand through his fringe, pushing it back and yawning. “Haz?” 

Harry sits up too, now that it’s inevitable.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” he admits. “I didn’t mean for it to happen this time.”

Louis gives him a wry smile and kisses his shoulder, snuggles closer under the sheets. “Where were you?”

Harry makes a face. “Australia.”

“We got to Australia?” Louis still looks mostly asleep, but he’s definitely excited by that, showing in his wide eyes, the uncontrollable grin tugging at his mouth. Harry wants to kiss him.

It’s 2011, so he can.

;

Drinking Yorkshire tea out of Louis’ favorite mug in the navy flannel sheets Harry threw out himself when they bought separate houses, with Louis curled impossibly around his wider body, it all feels slightly surreal. Harry’s had time to get used to that, though. This has been happening for months. 

Louis’ mouth is warm on his bare shoulder, his ratty t-shirt at the foot of the bed. “Feeling better?”

“Headache’s gone,” Harry offers. He might get a headache again, though, from the inner battle between not looking at Louis like he’s taught himself to and _wanting_ to look at him. This Louis is soft, sharp only in his wit, warm and inviting and sweet enough that he wouldn’t need sugar in his tea if he wanted it.

Louis’ mouth slides up his neck to just below his ear. “Good. So, Australia. What’re we doing down under?” His fingers tuck into Harry’s ribs wickedly, voice lifting on the words, trying for the joke.

“Definitely not getting chlamydia,” Harry mumbles, but the joke is lost on this Louis. His wrinkly-nosed face of confusion is well worth the trouble, though. “Touring for the second album, ‘bout to release a third.”

Louis whistles, soft and turned into Harry’s shoulder. “Well, we’re about to head down to Australia ourselves, so. I guess I’ll try not to contract anything.”

Harry nods, leans his head on Louis’. “Good,” he hums, “wouldn’t want that stuff.”

Laughing, Louis tilts his head and nuzzles at the side of Harry’s face. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Talk to me, yeah.”

Harry stretches his legs out and takes a sip from his mug before setting it down on the nightstand. His black friendship bracelet sits next to the lamp. Back home, in a few years, it’s in a shoebox he never really opens except to add more things to it. “What would you like me to talk to you about?”

“S’not about me, is it,” Louis points out. He’s being gentle, but he’s also shoving Harry over onto his back, scooting up until he’s sprawled half across Harry’s chest, drumming his fingers on Harry’s biceps and pecs. “Just, if you wanna, ‘m right here.”

In a way, it’s sort of nice to know Louis can still jostle him about and mold him however he pleases. “I’ve been like, doing this,” Harry tries, gesturing down at himself, his nineteen year old self with a Louis that’s just shy of twenty instead of twenty-two, “and I think it’s to do with being like, tired, or something.”

“Yeah,” Louis agrees, easily. This much they’ve discussed before. He traces at Harry’s shoulder, the cursive “g”, and in towards the newer date. “I haven’t seen this one before,” he says, softer.

“‘s new,” Harry says lamely, tips his chin down just so before giving up on looking.

“They’re all new to me,” Louis points out gently, fingertips skirting the musculature in Harry’s shoulder and arm, saying what his words aren’t, that the tattoos aren’t the only change. “I mean, even the ones I’ve seen before, it’s… different.”

At a loss for a response, Harry twists his arm a little, points at the portrait on the back of his bicep. “This guy’s new, he’s a bit creepy.”

Louis leans back to see and laughs, bright and delighted. “Proper hard, aren’t you? I bet you’ve named him.”

“Yes,” Harry grumbles, “his name’s Clarence, thank you.”

Louis grins and grabs at Harry’s arm, twisting it until it nearly hurts, just so he can reach the new ink with his mouth, plant a smacking kiss against the skeleton’s bowler hat. He looks up at Harry with daring eyes, crooked brows. His lips are shiny with spit. Harry blinks. Louis leans up, asks, “Got any more new ones I should see?” and his smile is positively wicked.

“Well, um, I haven’t, really,” Harry says, sheepish and all too disappointed at himself for it. He’ll have to go get a flower on his hip or sommat, a peace sign on his wang. “I’m a boring sort of guy.”

“Have to disagree there,” Louis says, but his face has gone soft, sweet. He brushes a wave of hair off Harry’s forehead and settles back down at his side. The first few times Harry appeared, they sat around wondering how long it would last, worrying about when he’d snap back. Now they know how it works: they just wait it out. Louis’ fingers are warm against the chilled air of the flat on Harry’s skin. 

“ _But don’t let it get to your curly head_?” Harry says, mimicking Louis’ accent and expecting a few good slaps to the shoulder for it. He sort of really misses that kinda predictability.

This Louis doesn’t disappoint, although his revenge comes in the form of a series of pinches from Harry’s shoulder to his left upper nipple. “Someone’s gotten sassy.”

“Sort of fits the bill, I s’pose,” Harry shrugs, brings a hand up to rub at his nipple. “Spoilt pop star. We’ve gotten some interesting questions lately.”

Louis squirms around until he’s on his side next to Harry, his thigh hitched up over Harry’s leg, one arm thrown effortlessly across Harry’s waist. His head is heavy, chin sharp against Harry’s chest. “Oh? Like what?”

“Not a question, but recently I was informed that I need, and I quote, _a good girlfriend_ ,” Harry mumbles. Just the memory of the interviewer’s hungry, perfectly made-up face is enough to make his stomach turn. “Liam’s been getting loads of pants brought to him since a girl tried to steal his off his balcony. Stuff like that.”

“Someone _stole Liam’s pants?_ ” Louis’ positively crowing in delight. “Oh my _god_ , I would’ve loved to see his face.” It’s a reaction so similar to what Louis’ had been when it actually happened that Harry stiffens involuntarily. “What?” Louis tips his head back to look up at him. “I mean, it’s obviously shit luck about the interviewers. They’re not that nice at the moment either, y’know. Everything’s about Caroline, won’t fuckin’ let up. It always gets better though.”

Louis’ naiveté is endearing, so sweet and honest, and for all Harry knows he could be right. “I hope so,” he says, gives up on keeping his hands to himself and brings a hand up to Louis’ hair, just this once. “Back home,” he hums, “you’re letting your hair grow out, a bit; it almost looks like this.”

Louis wrinkles his nose. “Letting it grow out? What was it? I didn’t shave it like Liam, did I?” That had been another story from another of Harry’s visits that Louis hadn’t stopped laughing over for _hours_.

“You had it in a quiff for a while, but then you got bored of that,” Harry explains. “Lou spends like a good half hour on it now to make it look like you just rolled out of bed.”

After taking a moment to consider, Louis shrugs. “Sounds like me. But who knows with that dick.”

Harry frowns, gives Louis’ hair the gentlest of tugs. “Be nice. Er, to yourself.”

Louis makes a grumbly noise that eases into a more approving sound as Harry’s fingers stay tangled in his hair. “Well, I’m a twat in the future.”

“A bit,” Harry concedes.

;

Harry wakes up. It’s still cold, and Louis’ hair is in his face. He’s about to close his eyes and try to go back to sleep, enjoy the warmth pouring off Louis in waves. Louis’ head stirs before he can pretend slumber. 

“Hey, you’re still here.” Louis’ smiling softly, and there are creases on his cheek from sleeping against Harry’s skin. He’s hard against Harry’s hip.

“I guess I am,” Harry nods, voice scratchy. It’s good that he’s been traveling in his pyjamas- soft, ratty t-shirts and joggers, at least, even if he ended up ditching the shirt at Louis’ request. He’s gotten in the habit of wearing clothes to bed instead of sleeping naked. It’s not a paranoia thing except for when it is.

“Mm,” Louis hums, and turns his face into Harry’s chest, pressing his mouth at the heavy ink of the _17black_. His hand squeezes lazily at the softness of Harry’s hip. “Should probably get up soon, then. ‘less you wanna stay in bed all day.” He sounds joking, but there’s a serious edge to the words.

“Are we supposed to be working today? I don’t think I’d blend in,” Harry frowns, pulling Louis closer.

Louis exhales, hot and damp against Harry’s nipples. “It’s Sunday. Don’t have any plans. Zayn talked about coming over, but you know how he is.” He’s holding remarkably still, for a Louis of any age. It almost sounds like he was _expecting_ Harry, except for how he already has a Harry of his own, usually.

“Do you miss me?” Harry asks, tracing the dip of Louis’ spine with his fingertips, trailing up and down. “Other me, I mean. Your Harry.”

“Course I do,” Louis says, immediately. They’ve already had that conversation; there’s never been any sign that it’s a precise switch, that when Harry is here, in 2011, his counterpart is there, in 2013. For all they can figure it’s arbitrary physics: two Harrys can’t exist at the same time, in the same place, and for some reason the older Harry takes precedence. Louis says that when Harry goes back to 2013, he gets _his_ Harry back, who has no memory of not having been there all along. “But I guess… I figure, if you’re here, you need me more than he does right now.”

“How selfish of me,” Harry hums, and it only takes a downward tip of his chin for Louis to rise up and meet him lips-first, warm and familiar. They’re like a well-oiled machine, together, like puzzle pieces, and Harry’s eternally glad that even though there’s years of difference between him and this Louis, he hasn’t forgotten how to navigate him, how to fit into him.

Louis sucks Harry’s lower lip between his own, tracing it with his tongue and letting it go with a soft, wet sound, pressing further up, propping himself on his elbow. His hand is restless, sliding up and down Harry’s bare side, sneaking across his chest to press his palm over the moth on Harry’s ribs. 

Harry isn’t sure if it’s because he’s been deprived, hasn’t had Louis like this in longer than he cares to think about, but he feels overloaded just from the contact, from Louis’ clever hands on him, even if they’re both above the waist still. His hand’s on Louis’ arse now, pulling him flush against his hip through only a couple of flimsy layers of jersey, and there’s an odd sense of comfort in knowing Louis _wants_ him, knowing he couldn’t deny it when the evidence is pressed right up to Harry’s hipbone. Knowing that this Louis _won’t_ deny it.

Louis leans back, smiling widely, staring at Harry’s mouth for a long second before his eyes dart up to meet Harry’s. “Still an arse man, Hazza?”

Harry doesn’t have the heart to tell him that recently, Louis doesn’t _have_ much of an arse. Instead he spreads his fingers, gets a good handful just because he can. Louis wriggles, arching his back into the touch and grinning triumphantly when Harry licks his lips. Harry knows he’s probably making his idiotic, needy, sex-happy face, but he doesn’t care. “You lot made fun of me for saying I’m a _personality_ man last week.”

“That’s because you _aren’t_ ,” Louis says matter-of-factly, his fingertips playing at the hair below Harry’s bellybutton. _His_ Harry doesn’t have much more than peach fuzz on his chest and chin, soft curls around the base of his cock.

“I am, though,” Harry insists, kneading at Louis’ bum. “It just so happens that they’ve got great arses, to boot.”

Louis’ eyes sharpen, snapping up from Harry’s mouth again. “Who’ve got great arses?” His short nails are digging at the edges of the tattoo on Harry’s chest possessively.

“You’ve got a single great arse, and a great personality,” Harry amends. “Unless you’ve grown another one. An arse, I mean. You haven’t got multiple personalities, have you?”

Louis looks appeased, wholly pleased. “It’s comforting you haven’t gotten any smarter, at least, Harold.” He kisses Harry’s chin, and slides his hand up to Harry’s pecs, rubbing at the cut of the muscle from where his workouts have been taking effect. 

“That’s _mean_ ,” Harry pouts, still palming absentmindedly at Louis’ arse. “I was about to ask if I could please touch you.”

Louis tucks his head into Harry’s neck and shoulder for a moment, breathing uneven and harsh. Harry could swear he feels Louis’ cock twitch against his hip. When Louis raises his head, he’s smiling again. He reaches up to tuck a tuft of hair behind Harry’s ear, touch his cheek gently. “We can do whatever you want, Curly.”

Harry _has_ to close his eyes and take a steadying breath, because that’s. He just doesn’t get to hear that much anymore. “I really would like to touch you, please.”

Louis nods, and leans back, sitting up and snapping at the elastic of Harry’s joggers. “You too, yeah?”

“Have we bought lube yet?” Harry asks jokingly, doesn’t think twice before hooking a thumb under his waistband and pulling his joggers down, even with Louis in his way.

“Have we bought lube yet,” Louis scoffs. “We’ve bought every kind of lube there is by now. Please don’t tell me you still like that strawberry shit.” He’s wrestling with his own sweats now, flopping onto his back on the mattress and wriggling around beside Harry as he shoves them off his hips and eventually off his ankles. 

“Don’t knock the flavours,” Harry pouts, and it’s sort of surprising to see Louis without a single drop of ink on his skin, even though Harry had _known_ this, could see it while Louis was still in his sweats. All of Louis, every inch of him, is delightfully warm and golden and pretty, his biceps deceitfully thick from a few trips to the gym but his tummy and thighs soft as ever. “Hi,” he sighs, and wishes he could have this forever, his past self be fucked.

Louis lets him look for a moment, one hand cupping his own thickening cock, the other trailing fingertips against Harry’s side. When he rolls over, it’s sudden, unexpected enough that Harry can only _oof_ as Louis shimmies on top of him before rolling them over. “Oops.” He’s nearly dragged them both off the bed, but now Harry’s caught between Louis’ thighs, elbows either side of Louis’ tan shoulders, and Louis looks deliciously smug. 

“You’re silly,” Harry mumbles, half-muffled against Louis’ lips. He’s tried a thousand times to kiss the smugness right out of him, will try a thousand more as long as Louis lets him. This Louis does.

Louis opens for his kiss from the beginning, tipping his head the slightest bit to the side and back, letting Harry lean over him. The edges of his lips keep curling up, helplessly grinning, and Harry kisses at them each time it happens, the corners of his mouth and the dimples that are only for Harry’s eyes and mouth. 

Harry pulls away with a laugh and a quick apology, half-sitting up to reach for Louis’ nightstand drawer and grab the bottle of lube he knows Louis keeps there. He doesn’t flick it open right away, though, but looks down his chest at where his and Louis’ cock are lined up, nudging together between them. Louis looks just as good as he remembers, if not better.

“Are you trying to see who’s bigger, or sommat?” Louis rolls his eyes, flicks at Harry’s thigh.

“Stop,” Harry shakes his head with a smile, grabs Louis’ hand to keep him from flicking again. “Being an old sap, ‘s all.”

“You’ve obviously won, anyhow,” Louis says, glancing down and then raising an eyebrow at Harry. He reaches for him slowly, gives Harry plenty of time to grab for this hand too, or to say something. 

Harry doesn’t stop Louis, instead watches him peel his foreskin back and slide it back up, his whole body almost shaking with relief and pleasure and wanting, just from dry friction. “I- here,” he says, once he manages to stop feeling like a _kid_ , and uncaps the lube, squirts a dime into Louis’ open palm.

“Yeah,” Louis says approvingly, and then, with a grin, “squirt some more on, will you?” He closes his fist, pulls it out of Harry’s reach, gives him a significant look. 

Harry hasn’t forgotten how this works; hasn’t grown out of wanting to follow Louis and the playful commands he gives. With his other hand hanging limply at his side, he squeezes more lube directly on his cock, inhaling sharply at the coolness of it.

Louis’ hand is back immediately, curling around Harry’s dick and smearing the lube around it with his palm, giving him a few good tugs to cover the length in slick before he rubs his thumb around the head. He reaches down with his other hand to touch Harry’s thigh, stretched vulnerably over his own, and gently scratches his fingernails through the dark hair there. “You have though,” he murmurs, “gotten bigger. M’little Hazza’s not so little, really.”

“Lou,” Harry whines, almost forgets to get some lube on his own hand before wrapping it around Louis’ cock and lowering himself on top of Louis again, his weight on his free forearm. He wants to mark Louis a little, maybe, the line right below his collarbones where he’ll have words tattooed in a few years, but isn’t sure if his past self would like it or be confused by it. Harry was usually the one sporting the bruises.

At least for the moment, Louis makes the decision for him, turning to nip at Harry’s throat as they settle together, teeth releasing his skin just so Louis’ hot mouth can close over the marks and turn them dark. His hand previously on Harry’s thigh has crept to his arse, and he’s urging Harry further down, pressing him forward. Harry shudders.

It’s so, so easy to fall into rhythm, perfect complements, hands stroking and twisting and sliding over each other’s cocks. When Harry swipes his thumb over Louis’ cockhead, rubbing over the slit, Louis follows his lead not two strokes later, almost like he’s trying to better Harry.

When Louis’ mouth slides up Harry’s throat, he’s already left a dark mark, fixes on the soft underside of his jaw with obvious intentions for a second. His hand tightens on Harry’s cock, tugging his foreskin up and rubbing it under his thumb across the head. 

“Not too dark,” Harry reminds him reluctantly, closes his eyes. He can’t exactly give the same significant looks at his Louis in the future when Lou asks, dabbing concealer over his neck, as his past self would. He tightens his hand on the next few upstrokes around Louis’ dick, as apologetic as a handjob can be.

 “You do me, then,” Louis says, and tips his head back, glancing at Harry under heavy lashes. “He won’t mind.”

Harry can almost see his younger self tracing the marks with his fingertips, kissing them gently, maybe even darkening them once they start to fade. Craning his neck, he nuzzles Louis’ neck, trails kisses along his collarbone before settling on a tender spot that’s less neck and more shoulder, kissing gently at first. Louis tastes like warmth and boy and home, and when Harry sucks at the spot, blood rising to the surface, his breath catches in his throat and his hand stutters on Harry’s dick.

“Yeah,” Louis whispers, “Haz.” He sounds gruff, voice low as he squirms underneath Harry’s weight. He doesn’t immediately find his rhythm again on Harry’s cock, instead flattening his hand and pressing Harry’s dick against his stomach, his other hand tightening on Harry’s arse.

Harry pulls back to look at the spot, red and shiny with the lightest hint of teeth marks, and it’s too pretty to let it be the only thing he leaves behind once he goes back to 2013. This time he goes right for the neck, above and slightly to the left of the hollow between Louis’ collarbones, attaching his lips to Louis’ skin and sucking hard, moving his hand around Louis’ dick just a bit faster. “C’mon,” he mumbles, bites at Louis’ neck.

Louis jerks up into Harry’s fist and his cock blurts precome over Harry’s fingertips. He’s not trying to keep quiet, either, mouth open for every deep breath and grunt Harry urges out of him with his teeth at Louis’ pulse. 

“Like that,” Harry hums, drags his teeth down to Louis’ chest and kisses there, too, his back hunched as he nibbles at Louis’ skin. Ever since he started traveling back, since they began messing about during his visits, he’s been deathly afraid of disappearing in the middle of this, of leaving Louis when they’re both close, when he’s finally getting what he’s been craving; and there’s an idea, that maybe he hasn’t been traveling back just because he’s tired but because of a different kind of homesickness entirely. He swipes his palm over Louis’ cockhead, grunts against his chest.

Louis’ hand leaves Harry’s arse to travel up his spine before cupping at the back of his neck, pushing into Harry’s hair and tugging slightly. “Yeah,” he mutters, as Harry’s breath stutters against his chest. “C’mon, Haz, y’alright.” It’s like he can almost feel Harry’s thoughts, the worry there under the arousal. This Harry hasn’t ever disappeared in the middle of them messing around, but they haven’t done it enough for the fear to dissipate. 

Harry shakes his head, surges back up to kiss Louis hungrily, suck on his lips and tongue, rocking his hips down against Louis’ hand on his cock. Louis has barely moved it but he feels close already, his balls drawn up, his cockhead wet with lube and precome. He’s missed this so much his eyes prickle and his throat closes up, but he won’t cry, not over this. Not if he can avoid making Louis worry.

Pulling Harry’s head back by the curls that are still tight and springy at the nape of his neck, Louis smiles up at him. He bites his lip, looking incredibly fond. “Yeah? C’mon, love.” 

“Fuck,” Harry says, half-laughing, and lowers his head again even with Louis pulling at his hair, kisses his chin and the corners of his mouth. This Louis doesn’t really let his facial hair grow out, shaves when he gets even just a five o’clock shadow, but Harry’s been wondering about the Louis back home and his scruff. His arms ache, one from holding himself up to keep from crushing Louis and the other from the odd angle in which it’s twisted so he can keep stroking Louis’ dick.

“I’m fine,” Louis assures him, pulling his own arm free from between them and tugging at Harry’s elbow and forearm. “Let’s just- like this, yeah?” He rubs his hands across Harry’s shoulders, massaging at his back and urging Harry further against him. 

“Won’t last,” Harry warns him, but lets Louis press him down, his cock fitting into the ridge of Louis’ hipbone. There’s barely any room to keep his hand moving on Louis’ cock, but he tries anyway, bumping against both their stomachs as he rubs off on Louis’ hip and tummy, desperate and messy. “C’mon, Lou, please-”

“Haz,” Louis laughs, “don’t have to, just... I wanna feel you, lemme-” he wraps one arm around Harry’s waist, up to pull his shoulder down. He’s all too hungry for Harry’s body, obvious in the demanding touches, and it’s the sweetest kind of relief that even when this Louis has his own Harry, he can still make room in his heart for another of him, too. 

Harry takes his hand away from Louis’ cock, finally, and lets it fall so his knuckles press into Louis’ hip, curled up into a half-fist. He works his hips in little circles, letting their cocks bump and rub together between them, and even if he’s not this Louis’ Harry he feels like he could be, breathless and needy like he’s adapted to fit into this place in time. If there’s one thing he’s learnt from these trips back, it’s that every version of him he’s been for the past three years has wanted every version of Louis he’s known in just as long.

“Yeah,” Louis breathes, pleased, and leans up, craning his neck to kiss Harry’s lower lip, sliding off his mouth as Harry moves. He’s moving as fast as Harry is now, hips fucking up, dick sliding against Harry’s. Their bodies have slotted together, Louis’ calf hooked over Harry’s, Harry’s toes digging into the mattress, trying for every bit of leverage he can get. Louis comes first, groaning against Harry’s chin, fingers digging into Harry’s back.

Kissing lopsidedly at Louis’ upper lip, Harry grinds down on Louis’ tummy harder, sharp little thrusts that peel his foreskin back where it sticks to Louis’ skin. Deep in his bones he _knows_ he won’t stay for much longer, the same way he has every time he’s come back here before, and he’s... not sad, exactly, but frustrated that it has to end. He’s always tried to be the sort of person who enjoys every last minute of things, tried not to dwell on what’s already happened, but. His head goes blissfully blank as Louis bites down on his lower lip, _hard_ , and he comes.

Louis grabs at him reflexively, arms tightening as he hugs Harry to himself, nearly painful as their cocks are slick and just softening between them. His nose ends up in Harry’s hair, just beside his ear, and he mutters nonsense assurances against Harry’s jaw as they come down. When their breathing is steadier, he eases Harry over on his side, kissing his forehead and leaning up on an elbow. “I’ll go get a flannel, yeah?” 

Harry wants to tell him not to bother. But it’s nearly worse disappearing right before Louis’ eyes. He nods, throat feeling clamped shut. 

Louis frowns slightly, leaning in and bumping their foreheads together. “I’ll be right back.”

;

Harry starts upright in his own hotel bed in Australia. The air conditioning unit has just kicked on. He can’t decide if it’s worse or better that there’s no evidence, no need for him to clean up, now. His bare stomach is just the slightest bit damp with sweat, and in an odd way he sort of wishes there _was_ something to clean up, just as proof that he hasn’t been dreaming.

He gets up and pads over to the loo anyway, still naked, and gets the shower running, thanking whoever decided to put a dimmer switch on the light above the mirror. He uses the complimentary shampoo and conditioner arranged neatly at the corner, even unwraps the tiny bar of soap that smells like lavender and will probably make his skin dry. He hasn’t bothered to look at the clock, but something tells him it’s the awful stretch of time where it’s still too early for him to be up but too late to go back to sleep before he _actually_ has to be up, like he’s beat his alarm clock by an hour but goddamn marimba has gotten stuck in his head anyway.

Harry doesn’t shower long. He’s out on the mat within minutes, rubbing himself dry with a towel around his waist and one over his head. He pulls the door open so the mirror will de-fog and shakes out his hair. There’s no use in really doing anything with it, when Lou will be fixing it up anyway after breakfast. They’ve got some tv spot this morning, the equivalent of Daybreak, he thinks. He’s just running his hands through the damp bits around his ears when he catches sight of the mark on his jaw in the mirror. It isn’t dark, not as dark as the one on his neck, but it’s noticeable. He presses two fingertips into it, draws them down to the other slowly, and can’t help smiling at his reflection in the mirror, foggy and sweating with condensation. 

;

“Harry had a fun night,” Louis announces through a mouthful of cereal. Harry’s wearing a shirt today, even buttoned it all the way to the second-to-last button at the top, but there’s absolutely no way for him to cover up the little red mark beneath his jaw short of make-up, and Lou isn’t up yet, or at least not downstairs. 

Zayn looks up from his phone in interest, blinking across the table he and Louis have commandeered at Harry. “Mate,” he says, sounding nominally surprised, or at least as emotive as Zayn can this early. 

“It’s a bug bite,” Harry mumbles, the first thing he can come up with. He’s feeling coffee today instead of tea. It’ll mess with how clean he’s been recently, how he’s laid off soda and has been trying to double up on fruit and veggies, but he can deal, reaching for the pot on the buffet that’s gone untouched till now.

“Some sort of bloodsucker?” Louis asks, smirking, and he shakes his head at Harry as if he can’t quite believe he’s trying to play this off. 

“Lou,” Zayn warns, crumbly around a mouthful of toast.

“What’s a bloodsucker?” Niall asks, bouncing in and nabbing a bagel from the platter at Harry’s elbow, smacking a loud kiss to Harry’s head before he settles himself comfortably in Louis’ lap. Harry frowns at his coffee stirrer.

Louis, for some reason, chooses to listen to Zayn this time. “Vampires. And mosquitos. Reckon that’d be a sick halloween costume, a mosquito vampire.” Niall doesn’t seem to mind Louis dodging the question, or spilling a bit of milk from his spoon on Niall’s jeans as he tries to get a bite in.

“That’d be an _awful_ halloween costume,” Zayn argues as Harry crafts a bowl of yoghurt and granola. “You’ve gotta pick one, mate, that sort of combo’s just confusing.”

By the time Harry takes his seat opposite them at the small table, Liam’s coming into the ensuite, obviously fresh from a work out and sans shirt. Louis and Niall wolf-whistle and Zayn rolls his eyes, but Harry just leans over to pull a chair out for him to join them. It must be the sideways motion that pulls at the collar of his shirt and shows off the second mark, because suddenly Niall says, “oh, _that’s_ a bloodsucker. Shit, mate.”

Harry glances up and tries to look disparaging, but Niall only seems more amused. Louis’ gone quiet, though, mouth pursed around his spoon and eyes slightly narrowed. 

“I know,” Louis says, dropping his spoon against the side of his bowl with a clang that seems too loud in Harry’s head. “ _Exactly_ what Harry can be for Halloween. He’s obviously been working on his horror makeup so he can be Celebrity Womanizer Harry Styles.”

Liam, halfway to the table with a forkful of egg halfway to his mouth, looks like he just might be considering running for the treadmill again. Zayn’s phone slides out of his fingers onto the table with a hollow-sounding click. Niall picks up Louis’ bowl and drains the milk, setting it down with a burp and crossing his arms. “Louis can go as Grumpy,” he suggests, placidly.

“As there’s not a Jealous,” Zayn grumbles under his breath. 

When Lou comes in to do Harry’s make up, Louis’ sitting on Zayn’s head and Niall’s got Louis in a headlock, as Harry and Liam eat their granola in peace. It’s pretty normal, for 2013. 

;

By the time they’ve done the round of radio interviews and shot footage for tv spots all morning, Harry doesn’t feel much like golfing. They’re leaving Australia in only a few days, but he’s tired, and he doesn’t particularly want a thousand HQ photos of his neck in a polo to be dissected on the evening news. Besides, he has a series of WhatsApps from Gemma saying there’s a movie on back at the hotel that he’d like.

In the elevator, Paul reminds him of her room number. Harry doesn’t bother stopping off at his own room before he makes his way to the suite she’s been sharing with Lou and Lux; he figures he can borrow Gem’s face wash and one of Lou’s shirts and be plenty comfy for an afternoon of Australian tv. 

Gemma makes them impromptu white wine sangria at the minibar as he gets his make-up off. When he looks up from splashing his face a final time, she’s there to hand him a towel and glance meaningfully at his neck. “That’s new, then.”

Harry sighs. “S’not what you think. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Gemma shrugs, and passes him a glass, orange slices floating across the top. They take the telly in her room; even though there’s one in the living room between Gemma’s bedroom and Lou and Lux’s, and the girls are out, Harry would much rather burrow under the covers and cuddle too close to Gemma, enough that she’ll complain about it without really meaning it. It’s a little brother sort of thing, the kind she always says she misses.

“Are you using protection, at least?” Gemma asks, flicking through channels, and Harry almost snorts sangria up his nose.

“Gemma, I told you-” he starts; she interrupts him, “Alright, fine, I was just _reminding_ ya, knobhead. Christ.”

“S’not _like_ that,” Harry says, defeatedly, playing with the edge of the sheets. Gemma’s toes are cold against his own, but it’s nice to have someone this close. He remembers how warm Louis had felt the night before. _Two years_ before. 

Gemma sets her glass on the nightstand, drops the remote somewhere in the covers before snuggling up to Harry’s shoulder. “When ever did you become a giant, baby brother?”

“Dunno,” Harry sighs, and smiles down at her in spite of himself. “When’d you get so short?”

“Traded height in for my smarts,” Gemma smirks, steals a sip from Harry’s glass. Just as quickly as the conversation has turned casual, she’s ready to try and ask the hard-hitting questions again. “Are you and the lads okay?”

Harry snags his glass back from her and takes a long drink, swallows and licks his lips before answering. “Yeah,” he says. “We’re good, Gems.” He can feel it isn’t going to be enough. Before she can ask anything else, he amends, “It’s hard, sometimes. But I’m okay.”

“As long as you’re happy,” Gemma says, poking at Harry’s side, and he knows she means in the grand scheme of things, in the sense of not letting his job become _work_.

“I am,” Harry reassures her, downing the last of his glass.

“Good,” Gemma says, and finds his hand under the covers, tangles her fingers up in his.

;

Eleanor arrives on Tuesday, and Harry spends all afternoon waiting for the jolt, the start that comes before he opens his eyes to a Louis that’s still his. Instead, he watches a different Louis cause riots backstage while Eleanor naps on the green room sofa. 

An hour before the show, Louis finally runs out of energy, piling half on top of Eleanor on the couch and tangling her hair between his fingers. She’ll yell at him later, probably, they’ve all seen how this goes, but for now she just mumbles something against his chest and lets him play with her curls. 

Harry doesn’t realize he’s staring until Zayn taps his arm and he jumps. Zayn hands hands Harry his own cup of tea for a sip, and then tugs at his hand. “Nap with me.” 

They find Niall on a futon in the wardrobe room, and between the three of them, pull it open and make a nest of hoodies and sweatpants. Zayn tucks his sharp chin over Harry’s shoulder and wraps one arm around his waist tightly, and Niall is close enough for Harry to feel his heat, their socked toes tangled together. “Thanks,” he says. 

“Don’t do this often enough anymore,” Niall says, without opening his eyes. Zayn doesn’t say anything, just tightens his arm around Harry. 

;

“What’s the best concert you’ve ever been to?” asks a girl named Spiffing Styles. They’re on the secondary stage, and Harry’s just had his crown stolen as Niall declared himself Snow White in a question about who would be which dwarf. 

And Louis says, “Leeds.”

Louis says “Leeds Festival-” and Harry’s heart stops. He’s only two feet away from Louis and he can’t move. Louis finishes his sentence: “-2009.” 

Harry turns away, stumbling over his own feet and the weight of his heart, dropped down to his knees. 

;

He jumps that night, leaps or tessers or whatever he’s calling it. He can’t say he’s surprised. Louis barely wakes up, or perhaps doesn’t at all, but he cuddles closer to Harry in sleep, pressing his cold nose to Harry’s neck and sneaking an arm around his waist. His toes are frigid, tucking under Harry’s calves, but Harry doesn’t shrink away. It’s too nice feeling needed.

He doesn’t sleep for hours, after that, afraid of going back before Louis wakes up. These aren’t dreams, and it sits uneasy in Harry’s stomach that Louis could wake and never know he’d been there.

In the end, he does drift off. 

He wakes up in the same bed, Louis’ arm tight around his middle, anchoring him in time and place. 

“Hey,” Louis whispers. “You’re back.”

“Sorry,” Harry says, automatically. 

Louis snorts, and it sounds like some sort of small mammalian noise with his congestion from the cold of the apartment. “Nah,” he says, and it’s warm, puffed out against Harry’s shoulder. “You know I don’t mind. Y’okay?”

Before he means to, Harry is biting his lip and asking, “What’s the best concert you’ve ever been to?” 

Louis’ hand unfolds and presses warmly against Harry’s stomach, starting to rub slow circles over his belly button, fingers stirring his happy trail. It must be a change for him. Harry knows what body hair he has is practically all new. Louis doesn’t comment on it, though, just hums thoughtfully. “I’ve a tie, I suppose.”

“And?”

“Well,” Louis drawls, obviously drawing it out. “When I saw the Script- you know the one I mean- and when we went to Leeds, I figure.”

Harry closes his eyes and curls up around the words in his mind. “Yeah,” he says. “I reckon those are my favorites, too.”

;

It becomes more frequent. Harry never quite knows what time it is, even what day anymore; he could chalk it up to jetlag and end of tour blues, like the other four, but he knows better. It starts happening while he’s awake: one moment he’s staring at his dark circles in the airplane bathroom mirror and the next he’s stumbling against Louis’ side in the kitchen of their flat at breakfast time. Time stands still so often he feels out of breath when it starts moving again. It’s harder to separate the two worlds in his mind as much: so far he’s just been grateful for the extra hours and minutes, but it’s getting easier to resent the changes. He keeps looking at his own Louis and wondering why he can’t be the _same_. 

It’s even worse since Louis’ hair has gotten longer, soft when he wakes up in the mornings, like the universe is messing with him and blurring his timeline rather than just sending him jumping back and forth in it. Louis won’t let Lou cut it, and so he parades around looking like his old hair’s been copied and pasted onto his current self, all scruff and crow’s feet that stay just a bit longer after a laugh than they used to.

At three in the morning, their second day in Japan, Harry’s sitting awake in his hotel bed. One moment he’s flicking through the channels, trying to find something like a cooking show or a stupid game show he can laugh at without understanding what anyone’s saying, and the next he’s back at the flat, and he could swear he sees the hotel room fading away at the corners of his vision and the flat blurring into focus before the headache takes over.

It’s daytime, and Harry walks into their living room from the kitchen to Louis playing FIFA on the Xbox. “Thanks, love- oh,” he says, pausing the game and putting the controller down. “Sorry, he’d been fetching tea,” he explains, stares at Harry with a worried little frown on his lips, getting to his feet. “You look a bit shit, babe, you okay?”

“I think it’s getting worse,” Harry says, weakly, and leans into the arm of the sofa. His legs don’t feel all there yet. He’s so, so tired of this. It hits him like a brick wall, rather, looking at Louis like this; soft and unkempt and in one of his own sweatshirts, the Jack Wills one they used to love. It’s not making anything easier, him coming back here. It’s just making things harder. 

“Oh, love,” Louis says, and draws him in carefully, cradling his head against his shoulder and rubbing his back. 

Harry can’t help melting into it, even though he _knows_ he shouldn’t, has been meaning to say something. “I’ve got to stop it,” he mumbles, and his own voice sounds alien to him, far away like he’s left it back in Japan. “I can’t do this to your Harry, it’s not... It isn’t fair to steal _his_ time with you.”

Louis pulls back, his hands tight on Harry’s shoulders. “You’re still Harry, though,” he says, softly, and then, his voice lightening, his mouth a careful smile, “It’s not like you’re bald Liam from the future turning into Harry and coming here for a cuddle, y’know?” 

He looks so hopeful, and all Harry can think is how he must’ve looked the same, in a different year, a different conversation, when it was Louis who couldn’t meet _his_ eyes. “I’m not your Harry, though.”

“You’re so _dense_ ,” Louis snaps, hands curling into fists. Harry can tell, hopes, anyway, that Louis isn’t as frustrated at him as he is at himself. “Is there even a reality where you’re not _my Harry_?”

Harry wants so badly to tell him, to say everything nasty he’s thought about his own Louis in the past two years. But maybe this Louis is right. Maybe it doesn’t matter, maybe they’ll always be each others’. So he kisses him instead. 

Louis bites back at his mouth, tugging at his lower lip and winding fingers in his hair, yanking him forward until they’re tumbling over the arm of the couch and there are knees in uncomfortable places and elbows in ribs and Harry’s face is a bit smashed, their teeth are clacking, but Louis is kissing across his cheeks wetly, laughing into his hair. “You idiot,” he says. “You idiot, of course you’re _my Harry_. Don’t you ever let anyone tell you different.” He glances up at Harry, eyes brilliant, brows bunched up, mouth kiss-pink. He’s everything Harry fell in love with. He licks his lips, and his smile is fierce. “Not even me.”

Harry falls asleep tangled up on the sofa with Louis, and wakes up to his alarm in Japan.

;

It’s not twelve hours later, and Harry’s supposed to be getting ready to meet the other boys in the lobby. They’re going to dinner at some traditional restaurant that’s “hot shit” as Niall proclaimed, reading the guidebook in the van earlier. He’s not so much getting ready as sulking in his bed, scrolling the little infinity of his twitter timeline and mentally debating a black and grey plaid or red and navy. Both the shirts are crumpled artfully in the armchair beside the bed, courtesy of Lou barging in to borrow something earlier and trying to prompt him to kick his arse into gear. 

Harry’s just decided to really get up when he’s suddenly not in his bed at all. Or rather, he is, but it’s not his hotel bed. There’s a vaguely familiar head of curls tucked into the pillow on the opposite side of the mattress, a light snoring that’s apparently been disturbed by his presence and turns into a snuffle as the person rolls over and sits up, blinking at him. 

“Oh, hullo,” he says. 

“Oh,” Harry echoes, bites back a laugh. “Hiya.”

His younger self barks out a delighted laugh before his hands fly up to cover his mouth. “Shit, woah. Lou was right, you’re like- old. Older.”

“Excuse you,” Harry says. “I may be your elder, but I’m not _old_.”

“You’ve got weird hair,” younger Harry pouts, tucking a curl behind his own ear protectively. “And loads of tattoos, jeez.” He reaches out and pokes at Harry’s arm. “Didn’t that hurt?” 

Harry nearly laughs, even if the surprise has still got him dizzy. “Well...” he trails off. 

His younger self’s eyes widen, giving him a smirk. “Oh, but I bet we like that.”

“You would know,” Harry gives him a significant look. He’s pretty sure by this point there had been a wrestling match or two with a happy ending and a couple of bruises for him to poke; what he can’t quite remember is whether he’d made the connection yet. He sighs. It’s going to be hell trying not to spoil anything for himself. It’s hard enough as it is trying to wrap his head around the logistics of this trip back.

“Mmm.” Seeing such a smug smile on his own, if slightly chubbier, younger face is a tad unsettling. Thankfully, it vanishes quickly, making way for an awed grin. “But this is so cool! Louis wasn’t sure it would work, and he said you probably wouldn’t show up even if it did, something about the physics. But I’m glad you did.”

Harry’s stomach sinks like someone’s thrown a weighted lasso round it and sent it tumbling to his toes. “Louis… wasn’t sure _what_ wouldn’t work?” he asks, slowly. 

His younger eyes widen. “Oh,” says Harry of 2011. “Well, he didn’t exactly tell me his plan. You know-”

“How he is,” Harry can finish that, easily. 

His younger self puts out his fist, and Harry bumps it, because if you won’t fistbump yourself, how can you expect anyone else to? “He just said he had to fix some things he’d been a proper wanker about,” younger Harry shrugs. He doesn’t seem too bothered.

“And you trust him to fix it,” Harry hums. It’s not accusatory, or judgemental, but an observation.

Younger Harry’s cheeks tint pink, and he looks down, twists his fingers in the sheets. “‘Course I do. You know that.”

Harry folds himself up, arms around his knees, tucking his feet under the blue and pink comforter. He wonders how much this Harry’s Louis has told him about _why_ Harry keeps coming back. Whether this Harry would be as trusting if he had. But if this is the same universe, Harry reflects, then this Harry stays anyway, inspite of the warnings. In two years this Harry will be _him_ , coming back to Louis for the same reasons. 

“Louis’ going to fix it,” younger Harry says, seriously. “And he said he’d be back to make us a cuppa.”

The truth is, Harry thinks, achingly, even if he’d had the warning, he’d have done it all over again, too. They’re the same person, after all. 

“Pull up the covers, there’s a draft,” says the Harry who still has a Louis. 

“Okay,” says the Harry who’s hoping when he gets back to his own time, he’ll have a Louis, too.

Curling up on his side, younger Harry watches his older self, examines the small differences and similarities. “Feels like looking in a mirror, except not. Dunno whether to be relieved or disappointed that you’ve got spots.”

“Hey,” Harry furrows his brows, dragging out the vowel. “I’ve got spots ‘cause _you_ don’t wash makeup off properly. Lou’s told me.”

“I wash it off properly!” His younger self looks vaguely affronted, touching at his cheek like there might be some leftover foundation even at the moment. “Louis helps.” 

Harry laughs. He knows how much “help” Louis can be. “Semen is _not_ an approved moisturizer, young Harold.” Watching his younger self blush tomato red and look as pleased as punch is probably the best thing that’s happened to Harry in a long time. 

“Right,” younger Harry mutters. “You would know about that. But Lou’s still with us?” It’s a blatant subject change, and a segue into questions Harry isn’t sure he should be answering, but he has to give himself some respite. 

“Yeah,” Harry grins, “she just brings Lux on tour with us. She’s a laugh.”

Younger Harry looks a bit like his mind’s been blown beyond repair by the thought of a baby growing into a toddler, of all things. “Does she like, walk and talk and stuff?”

“Like an actual toddler, yeah,” Harry laughs. “She can say her alphabet and Niall’s teaching it to her in spanish now.”

“Niall,” Harry’s younger face lights up. “What are they all like now? Tell me everything. Well,” he pauses, screwing up his face. “Not everything, like, save some surprises, but tell me the good stuff.”

Harry thinks of a billion things he could say: he could tell his younger self about the VMAs, or the Olympics, or meeting the queen; about Madison Square Garden or Zayn’s engagement or having a _movie_. “Niall’s the only one of us who hasn’t got tattoos,” he offers, “and he’s played guitar during our shows for a while now, which is cool.”

“Sick,” younger Harry grins. “He’s gonna love that.”

“He does love it, yeah,” older Harry nods. “Uh... You know, like, Little Mix from this year’s X Factor?”

“What about them?” younger Harry prompts, bites his lip. “Is Liam dating that girl Jade?”

Harry shakes his head, “Not yet, but Zayn’s dating Perrie.” He carefully leaves out the bit where they’re _engaged_ , figures what younger Harry doesn’t know certainly won’t kill him.

Younger Harry’s eyes look just about ready to drop out of his skull. “The scary one?”

“She’s not _scary,_ ” older Harry laughs, nudges his toes against his younger self’s calf under the covers. “She’s really nice. Zayn’s so gone for her.”

“Zayn’s gone for her _now_ ,” younger Harry giggles. “I just didn’t think she’d ever like, go out with him.” 

“Weirder things have happened,” Harry reflects. He can nearly smell the expensive wax of Taylor Swift’s red lipstick.

“What about Lou?” younger Harry prompts, smiling eagerly.

Older Harry smiles back, their dimples mirrored. “Lou’s great,” he says. “Like I said, she brings Lux on tour now-”

“No, I… like, Louis,” younger Harry’s smile has faded, and he seems confused now, more than anything.

Harry licks his lips. “He’s okay,” he offers, vague, trying not to let the smile fall off his face too suddenly. “I’m- _we’re_ \- taller’n him now. Doesn’t ever wear glasses anymore.”

“What’s going on?” His voice is so small that if Harry didn’t know better, he’d think this version was twelve, not sixteen. “Louis said things were different-” he stumbles over the word, like it doesn’t make sense in his mouth, and looks determined. “But he’s going to make it better, he promised.”

“Very stubborn, isn’t he?” older Harry half-smiles. He’s relieved, in a way, that he’s not embarrassed of his past self as much as he’s endeared.

“The most stubborn,” agrees younger Harry, and yawns, sleepy like a kitten. “Sorry, it’s just we were up sort of late-” he flushes, prettily, right up into his curls, and preens a bit. “Is it weird if we have a bit of a cuddle? It’s hard to sleep without when you’re so used to it.”

“Tell me about it,” Harry laughs, a little too bitterly, but younger Harry doesn’t ask. “I figure if you can’t cuddle yourself, how can you cuddle anyone else? I still like cuddles.”

There’s acceptance in his younger self’s eyes, a kind of pity, maybe, as he squirms across the mattress and tucks himself into Harry’s chest, his nose resting against Harry’s collarbone. “You deserve cuddles,” he whispers. “Everybody deserves cuddles.”

Harry’s kind of glad they both still hold the same values, at any rate, dozing off with his arm around his younger self.

;

“My favorite boys,” Louis says blithely. He’s propped up in the doorway with his arms crossed over a shirt Harry immediately recognizes as one of his own. Not from 2011, either, but one he’d bought in Australia. He sits up in bed, forgetting until it’s too late not to jostle the sixteen-year-old asleep on his chest. Younger Harry frowns up at him only until he notices Louis, and then he’s out of bed like a shot, all knees as he clambers over Harry’s thighs and stumbles off the bed. Louis picks him up like he’s nothing, spins him around and kisses him until he’s giggling, and Harry wonders if he’s still asleep, if this is a dream. 

“I,” Louis announces grandly, “have just been to the future, and dealt a ferocious blow to my own ego.” 

“Shit,” Harry breathes, a sick ache building below his ribs. He gets the feeling Louis wasn’t speaking metaphorically. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Louis dismisses it with a wave of the hand not palming the small of younger Harry’s back. “Everything’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asks again, already disentangling himself from the sheets. 

“Yeah,” Louis says, and for a moment his face is deadly serious before he cracks a smile at Harry. “Could use some ice though. You always said I was hard-headed.” He shakes a hand at Harry, and his knuckles look swollen. 

Harry nods, crawling out of bed. The Harry in Louis’ arms seems completely reassured, and Harry wishes he could be that easily mollified. On one hand, Louis seems pretty chilled out, happy with the results of whatever happened back in 2013, but on the other, it looks like he might’ve broken his bloody hand. 

He’s just scooting past the two of them to head for the kitchen when the wooziness strikes, and everything fuzzes out.

He comes to standing before a minifridge, which he recognizes as an exact match to the one in his hotel room in Japan. He’s not in his room, though, but Louis’- his Louis, sat at the edge of the bed looking disoriented, one of his cheekbones and the eye above it quickly turning dark and swollen.

“Fuck,” Harry mutters under his breath, fills one of the plastic cups on the counter with ice from the tiny ice box drawer and brings it to Louis. “Holy shit, you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis says, clearly confused. “You’re not me. Where’d I go?” 

“Back to 2011,” Harry says, happy to confirm that much. “He hurt his hand, so.”

“He hurt my _head_ ,” Louis grunts, and touches at his swelling cheek gently. “Where did you come from, anyway? You weren’t here a second ago.”

“2011,” Harry says, feeling like an echo. Louis still isn’t looking at him properly. This doesn’t feel any better. “I was in 2011.”

“He said you did that, sometimes,” Louis says, flatly, and reaches for the cup of ice in Harry’s hand. 

Harry sits next to Louis at the edge of the bed. He’s too tired and disoriented to stay on his feet and to avoid going anywhere within a couple of feet from Louis, like he’s been doing for longer than he cares to think of. Everything feels surreal; Louis’ swollen face, the familiar-unfamiliar hotel room, this conversation. “It’s not like I can control it,” he mumbles.

Louis fishes out a chunk of ice and holds it to his eye, inclines his head towards Harry. “He said you thought it was because you missed me.”

“Well... I. Yeah,” Harry says, keeps his eyes fixed on his lap. He’s ready for Louis to laugh at him, any minute now, to kick Harry out of his room and tell him to never speak to him again unless it’s strictly necessary.

Louis doesn’t say anything. They sit there, two feet apart on a hotel bed, with nothing to say to each other for too long. Finally Louis reaches out, his hand falling open on the mattress between them, palm wet from the melted ice. He looks up at Harry, trails of water like tears across his bruised cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry I dragged you into my mess,” Harry shakes his head, laughs a bit at himself because it’s better than crying. “Fuck.”

“You didn’t,” Louis says, and he sounds angry this time, contained but real, blooming under the surface like the blood where his own fist connected with his face. “You didn’t tell me. I had to fucking find out from my past self that you were _time traveling_ because of this shit.”

Harry laughs properly this time, a bit hysterical. “What was I supposed to tell you? I thought I’d just like, stop, Louis. ‘s not like there’s anything you could’ve done about it, is there?”

Louis’ lips twist thin, an ugly narrow line across the bottom of his face. “I dunno. Is there?” He yanks his hand back from the bed, palm empty, fingers closing around nothing, and stands up, turning away for a moment. “Because the me that gave me a black eye seemed to think so. He thinks it’s all my fault.” His voice fades, and he turns around. Harry notices, almost clinically, that both his cheeks are damp now. His left eyelid is puffy, swelling up to where his eye is barely a slit of blue and red. “It’s my own fucking fault,” he says. 

“Louis,” Harry sighs, rubs a hand over his face, runs it through his hair. “Just... calm down, yeah? Ice your eye, Lou will _kill_ me if it gets worse.”

“Why would Lou even blame you? I did this to myself!” Louis raises his voice, but also raises the cup to his eye, hisses at the cold against sensitive skin. “Harry, what the _fuck_ , you were _jumping back in time_ because of me.”

“Because of my issues,” Harry corrects. He’d like to jump _now_ , but he’s stuck, no tingles, nothing but gravity holding him down to this time and place. 

“Because of your issues with me,” Louis says, and stares at Harry out of his one good eye. “That’s why, isn’t it.”

“Because of my _feelings_ for you,” Harry snaps, finally coming off the bed, pacing towards the windows. “Christ, do we have to do this again? I’m sorry, I still care about you. I told you I wouldn’t get in your way with… with whatever, whoever, and I haven’t, have I? I’ve given you space.” 

“And instead you started time traveling to another version of me?” Louis sound incredulous. 

“He’s not another version,” Harry says, and then pauses, unsure. 

“I’m _right here_ at the same time as you are, mate,” Louis growls.

“He’s _mine_ ,” Harry shouts, feels like tearing his hair out, or shaking Louis, or both. “He’s still mine then, and you’re _not_ , okay? And I can’t help it, I don’t know how to stop. I’ve fucking tried, believe me, because as much as it’s _good_ when I’m there it just makes me feel worse when I’m here. I didn’t _want_ to do this, Louis, I didn’t _ask_ for it, or- or wish, or whatever you think I could’ve done to make it happen. I don’t _know_ , and it _hurts_.”

Louis sets the cup of ice on the dresser, grinds his fist into the glossy wood of the counter. Harry thinks of another Louis’ knuckles, fat with the swing he’d taken in this very room not half an hour ago. Louis clears his throat. “You’re not the only one who feels that way, y’know. It’s not… it’s not just you, it’s not like it was _easy_ for me, Haz.”

“You made it look pretty fucking easy,” Harry says, but his voice sounds too small, like it’s going to give out. 

“I’m sorry,” Louis says. He bites his lip until it goes pale, and holds out his hand, palm open. “I’m so sorry, Harry, please…” 

“What?” Harry asks, and it feels ugly in his mouth, accusative and frustrated. He can feel the tears coming on. He thinks how his younger self’s first impulse on seeing his Louis was to run into his arms, and he looks at his own Louis now, his hand shaking in the open space between them. It’s more of an invitation than he’s had in months. 

“Let me try to fix it,” Louis says, and Harry takes the offer, crashes into his chest and presses his nose to Louis’ neck. Louis’ arm closes around him like a vice, his other hand coming up to Harry’s neck, and they sway for a moment, trying to find footing when their knees keep knocking. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbles, breathing him in; Louis’ cologne and the comfortable smell of his worn-in jumper, soaking up the heat from his body, “I’m so sorry, Lou, I never meant for any of it to happen-”

“Oh shut _up_ ,” Louis says, and steps backwards. For one heart-stopping second Harry thinks he’s pulling away, but then Louis’ staring up at him and his left eye is swollen shut and his cheek is mottled underneath and his other eye is wet, a tear down the crease of his nose, and Louis is kissing him, sudden and fierce, curling his hand at Harry’s neck and dragging him down.

It’s nothing like kissing Louis in 2011; this Louis’ lips are chapped, and his hands feel rougher, and his scruff tickles Harry’s skin, and he’s everything Harry hasn’t admitted to himself he’s been wanting out of his trips back to younger Louis. When he pulls away it’s as a delayed response, gasping against Louis’ mouth when he thinks, _Shit, Eleanor._

“Lou,” he says, and Louis just tries to kiss him again but Harry leans away, shakes his head. “ _Louis_. I can’t- Eleanor.”

Louis stares at him like he’s speaking in a different language. “What?” he asks, pulling away so quick he stumbles a little. 

“What do you mean _what_ ,” Harry says, voice going squeaky with panic. He feels like he would’ve been prepared for any reaction but this, honestly, Louis looking at him like he’s the one in the wrong.

“I mean, you thought I’d cheat on her with you?” Louis voice is dangerously modulated, and his one good eye is nearly as narrowed as the one currently swollen shut. “Is that what you fucking think of me?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Harry says tiredly. His head’s pounding, and he’s not sure what Louis wants him to say, exactly. “Are you- did you finish it off?”

Louis crosses his arms, rubbing at his own biceps. He looks away. “I thought he- me- I thought _I’d_ have told you. Like, back then, I guess? I just assumed, I’m sorry. I’ve done such a shit job of this whole thing, haven’t I?”

“I don’t think you have,” Harry offers, fingers tangled up in front of him and toes curling on the carpet. “It’s not been just you, regardless.”

“Well,” Louis says, and glances up at Harry. “Honestly, you idiot, you didn’t think the first thing mini-me cleared up when he came storming in here like the ghost of fucking Louis past was the fact she was asleep in my bed? C’mon.” He rolls his good eye, clears his throat.

Harry can’t contain a breathless, relieved laugh. He misses 2011 Louis already; something tells him he might not get to see him again, frozen in time. “You’ll have to clear it up,” Harry tells him gently, “just- whatever it is you wanna do. It’s okay.”

“It’ll be bloody strange,” Louis shakes his head, a flash of honesty that Harry knows he’ll shrug off, gone as quickly as it came. “We’ll talk it out but it’s over, end of. I sort of just wanna do you,” he hums, the corner of his mouth pulled up in a smirk at the last of it.

“Lou,” Harry sighs, wraps his arms loosely around Louis’ middle, hands clasped at his lower back. “Gotta let Paul know, too, yeah?”

“Paul will know, if he doesn’t already from the scene we put on earlier,” Louis says with a quirk of his eyebrows. “Loud little fucker, that mini-me.”

“It was cute,” Harry says automatically, too used to defending Louis’ tendencies towards public displays of… anything, really. “Mostly.” 

For once, Louis ignores the opening, steps closer to Harry instead, obviously picking his words with care. “I don’t want you to ever feel like you have to go back to him,” he says, hushed, “for anything. I’m yours too, you know?”

Harry nods, “I know,” and leans down to kiss the corner of Louis’ mouth. He’ll have to get used to kissing this Louis. It shouldn’t be too hard. 

Louis tilts his head to brush their lips together properly, and for a split second Harry wonders if he could skip ahead, try the future on for size. With Louis’ mouth opening against his, soft and tentative, his fingers digging into the insides of Harry’s elbows, he doesn’t need to. They’ll be just fine sticking to the present.

**Author's Note:**

> Additional notes [here.](http://hostagesfic.tumblr.com/post/66103753410/a-note-regarding-a-run-at-the-past)


End file.
